The Night of All Souls
by pariah wilson
Summary: Maybe it's not written in Dad's Journal but really? Some people should just stay out of graveyards on All Hallow's Eve.Disclaimer They don't belong to me, I'm only wishing in one hand.


_**The Night of All Souls**_

All Souls tonight.

All the goddamned souls.

Here. Babbling.  
They know him, know he's a hunter. They know he can see. They cluster around him, so thick he can't see anything else. He can hear them.  
Babbling.

Hedidithediditcouldn'tlivewithouthimgoddambitchjust  
happenedshouldnabeenjustanaccidentiswearididn'tmean  
tohelphelphelpme...

Goddamn souls.

He tries to push through them, but they cling, cold and tenacious.

He shivers. He tries to bat them away.

He can't see.  
He can't see the streetlights, or the headlights. Can't see the candles flickering in glass votives, glowing behind empty eye holes and jagged vegetable teeth.

He sees faces and pale corpselights and their voices are an endless rushing in his ears.

HelpmepleaseIcan'tgohomecan'tevergohome...

Every stone is a luminario glowing blue as the skin on a dead man's face, a pale sickly light that detaches itself and attaches itself to him.

The cold light goes where he goes. They all go where he goes. They're in his eyes and he can't see anything but ghosts.

He can't see the path or the flashlight his brother carried before they came. They're so cold. He's so cold.  
He can see the ghosts and feel them whirling around him. It's a cold wind that doesn't even lift his hair but it's so cold. He shivers and they laugh and scream at him.

Ican'tgohomenotyettoosooncan'tmakemewon'tletyoumakeme...  
His foot catches on a stone set too low and he can't stop himself. He's falling into the cold light, blue flashes behind his eyes and the earth is cold and musty smelling and yielding under his hands. He can't move, he can't stand up.  
He pushes and it gives. He pushes and the ghosts push back.

Don'tgowon'tgostayherestaydownstay...

There's a stone by his hand, an upright stone and it's glowing like the others, too cold to touch, but he grabs it because he needs its help. He has to get upright too, so he pulls on it and pushes against the yielding grave. The light leeches onto his hand and rushes down his arm, stealing his strength. He can hear it in his bones.

Won'tgodon'tgostayherestaystay...

But he's getting there. Getting up, standing. He's going. "Stay down!"  
He shakes his head and tries to stand.

"Goddammit, stay down!" And it isn't a cold voice, it's hot with rage so he stays down while the light cracks apart with a roar and a scream, a thousand screams, and the ghosts are gone.  
He's shivering, but it's because the mud is cold, October cold and the ghosts have taken all his warmth.  
He hears the salt pattering down all around him, on him, and it's warm as spring rain.  
His brother's hand is on him, and that's warm, and the light is yellow and familiar and safe.

"Goddammit, can't you stay with me? Can't leave you alone for a minute, you gotta run off and play with your little friends while I'm busting ass?"

And that's warm too, warm honey in his ears..

There's warm hands pulling at him, pulling him up. He sees a solid dark bulk against the pyre in the grave behind him and saying "Come on" so he does that.  
He stands, and he's leaning against that solid bulk warm all down his side still trying to breathe and he can still hear the voice, anger and humor warm over cold fear.

"Dude, if you wanted a costume you coulda said, you know."

A warm huff of breath in his ear.

" Jeez. We coulda wrapped you in a sheet like normal people do, but no, psychic boy has to wear real ghosts for Halloween."

He puts a cold hand on his brothers chest and looks around. He sees the cold lights, and hears the whispers.

Stayherestaystaystay...

He wants to stay there, warm and solid with a fire behind them but he knows he can't. He pushes at his brother with shaking hands.

"Dude, shut up already. I'm ok. Just..gimme the salt."

"Oh, you're carrying more than the salt, princess."

The strap of the duffel bag hits his shoulder, weighing him down, heavy and solid and real.  
He smiles. He's still got a free hand for the bag of salt.  
He hears his brother gathering up the tools, clanking, and knows he's behind him with shotgun and shovel.

He looks around again.  
Every tombstone is glowing with pale corpselight, ghostly luminarios scattered everywhere, whispers flying on the wind and no clear path.

He digs into the bag and throws a fistful of salt, back the way they came, out into the lights and angry pleading voices. It patters down white and clear and cold, in the sudden silence.  
He takes a step, throws another handful out on the path they have to walk.

"Let's go."

He can hear his brother's solid footsteps crunching behind him as he goes, throwing salt like flowers into the dark.


End file.
